


A Bit of a Domestic

by AnnieAmazing



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:25:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieAmazing/pseuds/AnnieAmazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's had yet another sleepless night, and Sherlock has managed to get on his last nerve. Eventual Johnlock.</p><p>Cross-posted on FFnet. Beta-read by FFnet user TSylvestrisA (TSylvestris on AO3).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Junejuly15](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Junejuly15/gifts), [TSylvestris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TSylvestris/gifts), [Mildredandbobbin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mildredandbobbin/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. (But John does. Except, he doesn't. Yet.) The characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This version of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Gatiss, Moffat and the BBC. I don't earn money by writing this. This fanfiction is for entertainment only and I don't mean to offend anyone by posting this on the internet.  
> Author's note: This story is cross-posted on FFnet. Progress on both platforms, AO3 and FFnet finally evened out. Reviews would be lovely. :)

**A Bit of a Domestic, Chapter one: Enough  
**

John felt like a zombie as he shuffled, yawning, into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. Last night had been dreadful.

 _"Don't make me compete with Sherlock Holmes!"_ his last girlfriend had said, and now the voice from last night's dream echoed in his head and he groaned.

"Good morning, John," Sherlock said from behind him.

John jumped. _"God,_ Sherlock, would you mind not sneaking around like a bloody ninja at half six in the morning?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but didn't question him. Instead, he pushed him farther into the kitchen, to the coffee pot waiting on the counter top. John made a noise of protest, but in fact he was far too tired to fight right now. He yawned again, stretching his arms to either side of his body, eyes squeezed shut.

When he opened them again, however, he stared blankly at the cup of coffee sitting in front of him. He blinked several times and his throat made an odd sound when he opened his mouth to speak. He swallowed and tried again.

"Is my birthday today?" he asked, perplexed, and turned his head over his shoulder to look at his flatmate.

Sherlock didn't look up from his microscope, but John could hear the eye-roll in his voice. "One would assume you would know your own date of birth. Furthermore you know that I do not particularly care for such trivia."

"You made me coffee," John stated, blinking again in confusion. He looked back to his mug, filled to the brim with hot coffee and just the right amount of milk. Then his gaze wandered back to Sherlock - or rather, to the back of his head. "You never make me coffee. So I assume it's some special occasion or you want to drug me again."

"You don't believe I would pull the same trick twice, do you? Also, can't one make a coffee for his flatmate without having any diabolical plots in mind?" Sherlock asked, and there was not the slightest bit of mock-innocence in his tone, as was so often the case when he tried to experiment on John.

The doctor was still skeptical. "With any _normal_ flatmate that would be fine, but not when the person you share a flat with is an easily bored genius named Sherlock Holmes, no."

"Interesting. Apparently it's fine to trust your life to me during cases, but I'm not trustworthy enough to make you coffee. Go ahead and brew yourself a new one, then." Sherlock continued to focus on his experiment.

John raised an eyebrow, but of course his lunatic flatmate couldn't see that. He sighed. "Okay, okay, I'll drink your coffee. Thank you." He grabbed the cup and took a sip before sitting down at the kitchen table.

His gaze lingered on Sherlock. On his long, pale fingers adjusting the microscope, to be exact. A violinist's fingers, graceful and thin, skin soft except for the calloused fingertips.

Sherlock felt the eyes on him, but didn't look up when he sighed and asked, "What are you staring at me like that for?"

"Uhh?" John answered unintelligibly, shaking his head. "N-nothing," he managed eventually.

"Well, stop it, it's distracting."

John said nothing, instead dropping his eyes into the light-tan liquid in his coffee mug.

After a long moment, Sherlock sighed again and looked up from his microscope. "God, John, what's the matter with you today?"

"What, am I putting you off by staring into my coffee now?" he complained. "Fine, I'll just leave you to it, then."

He moved to get up from the chair but was stopped by his flatmate's hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down.

"Sleepless night again, I take it. I didn't mean to offend you," Sherlock said, letting go of John's shoulder.

The doctor sighed and shook his head. This was as close to an apology as he would get. "Fine, it's fine. I'm fine," he muttered, staring down on the table.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and pushed the mug back into his friend's hands. "Take a day off and go back to sleep. You look awful," he advised, genuine concern in his voice.

John snorted. "Why, thank you! Not everyone can look as fantastic as you do even after three nights without any sleep," he snapped.

"Now you're just being irritable. I wasn't trying to offend you, I'm merely concerned about your health."

"Thanks, but I'm a doctor, I know perfectly well when I'm healthy or not."

Sherlock exhaled harshly and turned back to his microscope. "Whatsoever you're going to do, I would greatly appreciate if you'd make an effort to contain your foul mood. I have work to do and it's putting me off."

It was exactly the wrong thing for him to say at exactly the wrong time. "Oh, right," said John, smacking his mug down on the table. _"My_ foul mood - which does not, I'd like to point out, take the form of playing the violin at three in the morning, insulting my flatmate's girlfriends, or _shooting the bloody walls_ \- is putting you off!"

"Stop shouting, please." It wasn't even a request, John thought, not really. It was an order with "please" tacked on. He hadn't even looked up.

"Where you even _listening_ to what I said, you insufferable prat?"

The detective sighed. "I could not possibly have missed it, because you screamed it right into my ear. The kitchen is tiled, John, and loud noises reverberate unpleasantly." His voice was still calm, his eyes and hands still fixed on the microscope.

"Fuck you!"

The taller man raised an eyebrow and looked at his friend challengingly. "Oh, why don't you help me with that?"

Oh, that was it. That was _it._ John slammed his hands flat on the table and stood up. "Okay. That's about as much as I can take. You're self-centered and insufferable, and what's worse is that you wouldn't give two shits about me. Not even me, of all people, your best friend! I've had enough. I'm going."

"Fine. We need milk."

"I am not going for milk! I'm-" John exhaled slowly, deliberately. "I am going to look for a flat."

"Don't be ridiculous. We don't need-"

"Not for us, Sherlock. For me. Just me."

Well, he certainly had Sherlock's full attention now. He felt his scrutiny like a physical weight against his skin. Finally the other man turned back to his experiment and said dismissively, "You're being melodramatic and absurd. Clearly your judgement has been adversely affected by sleep deprivation."

John clenched his hands, lips pinched to a tight white line. "Right, then," he said, and strode past Sherlock and up the stairs to his room, slamming the door loudly enough to wake Mrs. Turner's Married Ones next door.


	2. Inconsistencies

**A Bit of a Domestic, Chapter two: Inconsistencies  
**

John fell onto the neatly made bed his hotel room and stared at the ceiling. He'd considered asking Mike or Greg for a place to kip until he found himself a flat, but he needed time alone, time to think, and he certainly didn't want the D.I. poking his nose into his private life. Not that Lestrade would pry, exactly, but staying at his place would raise questions. Questions of the sort John didn't want to answer, and frankly couldn't.

A sigh fell from dry lips and lingered, leaving the air thick and heavy. All the memories he'd been trying to keep at bay rose up, flooding the spartan room.

 _"Somebody loves you."_ Irene Adler's voice echoed in his mind, its mere existence giving him a nasty headache.

"Yes, for God's sake, somebody does," he snarled, and then bit his lip. There was an unpleasant edge to his voice and it echoed from the walls.

Of course he loved Sherlock. Sherlock was his best friend. Sherlock had given him back his life. Sherlock had cured his limp. Sherlock - insufferable, arrogant Sherlock - was what kept him alive. Who wouldn't love a person like that, difficult and annoying or not?

Loving someone and being _in love_ with them, John told himself, were two different things entirely. He was not, he told Irene's voice in his head, _in love_ with Sherlock Holmes. He was not, he told her, _actually gay._

 _"Well, I_ am," she answered in her cutting voice. _"Look at us both."_

John squeezed his eyes shut. Stop it. Just... _stop._

His mobile buzzed. Thankful for the distraction, he dug it free from his trouser pocket, realising too late that it was Sherlock who was most likely to send him a text.

**We're out of milk. -SH**

John groaned in annoyance. "I've moved out just three hours ago, pick up your bloody milk yourself, you insufferable git," he gritted out. For a moment, he was tempted to text back with exactly those words, but decided against it and poked the screen hard to delete the message instead.

He'd just ignore Sherlock from now on. Block his number, maybe. He shook his head; no, that was too harsh. What if Sherlock actually needed his help with something, maybe a particularly difficult (and therefore interesting) case? Or had got himself in mortal danger? What if he got shot or otherwise hurt?

Nope, John wouldn't block his number. But he'd certainly ignore every stupid text message he'd receive until something interesting or dangerous occurred. And even then, he wouldn't jump to be at Sherlock's side, unless he felt like it. _Maybe._

Because, he reminded himself, he needed time apart from his lunatic flatmate. Time to himself, to be able to think, re-think and over-think his conclusions.

John groaned once again and resumed staring the ceiling down in a mental battle. Not a brilliant course of action, he realised when his unconscious provided him with more unwelcome memories.

 _"You're still hanging round him. Opposites attract, I s'pose."_ Sally Donovan's this time. The tone wasn't mocking, but John couldn't help but feel taunted regardless.

 _"Piss off_ already! You're wrong, you're all wrong," he said into the empty room. "It's not like that. I'm not like that, I'm not. I'm just... not."

And at that moment, right there in that hotel room, on the soft bed, staring at the ceiling, rubbing his forehead and feeling nothing but emotionally exhausted - right then, John wished for nothing more than to never have met Sherlock Holmes.

. . .

Days passed, and John felt worse and worse with every hour he spent in this room. He'd had no luck so far finding a flat, which was hardly surprising considering his financial circumstances and the rents in London.

He'd received three more texts from Sherlock and one from Mycroft. Sherlock's had been trivial, except for one that asked him to come to a crime scene. And even though he really wanted to go, even though he needed the excitement, John didn't have the energy. It probably wasn't all that exciting anyway, he'd told himself.

Mycroft's message had been of an entirely different nature. John held his phone and read it again.

**Sherlock is being more obnoxious than usual. I shall take this as a sign he misses your company. You should return and talk it out, for both your sakes. - Mycroft Holmes**

Who the hell did Mycroft think he was anyway, trying to order him around like that? John's anger was short-lived, and he swallowed hard, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Then he tossed the phone on his bed and shook his head. No. He couldn't. He wasn't ready.

Would he ever be ready? He sighed. Not if he didn't stop sulking, no. He'd have to try and work it out, figuring out his feelings and himself, before he could go back to talk to Sherlock.

He squeezed his eyes shut again and wished for all the contradictory feelings inside him to quit whirling around and just stop. Stop and leave, like they'd never been there.

John's hands clenched into fists at his sides and he shook his head again. "I don't... _fancy_ a bloke," he whispered to himself, "right?"

He'd been straight all his life. He knew it for certain. He was just confused because other people all seemed to think he and Sherlock- He'd get over it, wouldn't he? Get back to normal?

All right. Time for some soul-searching. What if his heart told him that, _yes,_ he actually was _in love_ with his flatmate? Could he just go back to 221B and live with Sherlock, knowing about his feelings, knowing that Sherlock didn't - couldn't - return them? Or did - could - he? Would he even want to?

John shook his head, it didn't matter. He wasn't... _gay._ And he certainly wasn't in love with Sherlock. Full stop.

John lay back and imagined a woman, blonde, green eyes, beautiful face, full lips, C-cup breasts and a wonderful, round arse to hold onto. He could see her smile at him, white blouse unbuttoned low enough to show off her cleavage, skirt so short he could see the bottom curves of her buttocks and the hems of her lacy black panties.

He inhaled slowly and felt himself throb with arousal as she came closer, reaching around him and pressing her body full against his, right hand on the small of his back to hold him there.

"Oh God, yes," he hissed softly, and imagined her thigh pressing between his legs, rubbing at his prick. Her breasts against his chest felt so good, so right. He let her catch his lips with hers, moving against them, prying them open. Her skillful mouth sucked at his tongue and he moaned.

She let her lips slide off his to trace them over the shell of his ear. Her husky voice thrummed against his skin, and then a rich baritone thick with desire and need murmured in his ear.

"Fuck me, John," he could hear Sherlock say. "I want you to fuck me."

His left hand was out of his pants in an instant. Oh God, no.

And once again, lying there in his hotel room, staring at the ceiling, his jeans unzipped and unbuttoned, cock still half-hard, Dr. John Watson wished for nothing more than to never have met Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Reflexion

**A Bit of a Domestic, Chapter three: Reflexion**

John groaned and turned off the telly. Five seconds later he switched it on again, zapping through channels restlessly until he found some documentary about wild cats. There. That should keep his mind occupied.

A jaguar prowling the Amazonian rainforest reminded him remarkably of Sherlock. An exhausted sigh escaped him before he could stop himself.

 _All right, definitely time to get drunk,_ he thought, unable to bear the images his subconscious was tossing up. _Sherlock on all fours, his gleaming eyes boring deep into John's, every muscle in his back taut, ready to take down his prey..._ John swallowed thickly. Yes, he was absolutely in need of a drink.

He extracted himself from the duvet, hopped off the bed, and opened the mini-bar at the other end of the bedroom. For such a cheap hotel, there was quite a variety of alcohol. Whisky and cola to start, he decided, grabbed the bottles, and slammed the door shut with just a tad too much force. The bottles still inside clinked angrily. _Your time will come,_ he told them.

Snatching a glass from the cupboard above the fridge, he mixed himself the first drink and downed it in one long gulp.

That drink was followed by one more and another and yet another one. _This is what it's like for Harry, I guess,_ he thought muzzily not long before he fell asleep halfway under, halfway on the duvet, happily pissed and oblivious to the world and, more importantly, to his confusing feelings.

. . .

John tossed and turned and woke up sweating and panting. He didn't remember what exactly he had dreamt about, but Sherlock was part of it.

He squirmed uncomfortably and glanced down to confirm that yes, he had a raging hard-on taunting him through the cotton of his pants. _Great, just great._ Ignoring the... _inconvenience_ between his legs, he turned to lie on his side. A glance at the clock on his phone told him it was barely three in the morning.

How warped was it that he missed hearing the sounds of a violin in another room?

He shook off the thought and stared at the curtain's slight wavering at the touch of the chilly air streaming in through the open window. He followed the movement with his eyes, trying to lull himself back into much-needed sleep.

"Why are you refusing to accept the evidence, John?" a deep baritone sounded and the good doctor jumped. He sat up and looked around frantically, but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. What the...? Where was that bastard hiding?

"Sherlock?" he asked into the darkness of the room. There was no answer. John swallowed thickly. _How long has he been watching me? God help me if he knows..._

Right at the moment when he fell back into the cushions and closed his eyes, deciding to just ignore Mister Know-It-All wherever the hell he was hiding, the voice sounded again, close to his ear this time. "Come home," it said. "I miss you, John. I need you - just as much as you need me."

John's eyes shot open and he momentarily stared at the ceiling, trying to focus, suddenly very self-conscious. His heart beat frantically, heat rose to his cheeks, and his breathing sped up. He turned his head to the left to stare into empty pitch-blackness. Where the hell did Sherlock go? Was he even really here?

"No," he heard himself croak. Whatever kind of twisted dream this was, he had to wake up, and soon.

"John." John didn't answer. "John. Look at me, John." Persistent bugger.

The way Sherlock said his name sent shivers down John's spine and goose flesh all over his arms and neck. He turned his head in the direction he heard his friend's voice come from. And there, on the edge of his bed, sat Sherlock.

"You... that's just unbelievable," John said, voice unsteady, partly out of confusion and partly out of suppressed anger. "You actually picked the lock to my door? You really have no boundaries at all, do you?"

A delicate eyebrow threatened to disappear into soft, brownish-black curls. "No, John," Sherlock answered, "don't see, _observe."_

John blinked and tilted his head to the left, observing carefully. Then he winced; of course: jeans. He was wearing jeans. Sherlock didn't wear jeans. Ever. (They looked stunning on him regardless, John decided.)

"You're not real. God, I must still be drunk."

A brief smile crossed Sherlock's features. "Very good," he said, "but not drunk, not anymore."

John stared. _So what is this, then? Am I starting to see stuff now? Am I... going mad?_ John pondered, fighting rising panic.

"Calm down," the dry baritone answered. "I'm just one of your body's protective mechanisms. Talking with your subconscious is supposed to be quite helpful for understanding one's motivations."

 _How is this supposed to calm me? Only lunatics talk to themselves. Oh,_ God, _I'm going mad for..._ because _of Sherlock Holmes. And why would my subconscious look like him and have his voice and speak like him, anyway?_

A chuckle ripped John out of his panic. He glared daggers towards Sherlock's frame. _So beautiful in the moonlight..._ He just stared for one long moment, then shook himself out of it and frowned.

The imaginary Sherlock looked back at him with what appeared to be genuine worry. "John," he said, "John, you need to go home."

"I can't," he answered evenly. "Sherlock will know at one glance. It'll be humiliating. Worse, he would be... _disappointed."_

Subconscious-Sherlock shook his head. "You know that's entirely untrue. You'll always be welcome at Baker Street. It will always be your home. I need you there. _He_ does, too."

It was John's turn to shake his head violently. "No, I can't, it will ruin our friendship if he finds out. And he will find out eventually. He's Sherlock Holmes, for God's sake! There's absolutely nothing anyone could hide from him."

"He seems fairly clueless about how certain others feel towards him." A delicate brow rose towards the ceiling.

John rolled his eyes. "Just because he's unable to bring himself to feel for others it doesn't make him oblivious to other people's feelings. He simply... he doesn't care... _usually._ He'll probably care if his _flatmate_ lusts after him. And it's going to annoy him."

Subconscious-Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "Is that truly how you feel? Do you honestly think so little of him?"

John swallowed thickly. "I can't believe I'm having this discussion with myself... about Sherlock," he muttered and squeezed his eyes shut. "You know what I'm thinking, how highly I think of him, and not just because of... _that,"_ he said, indicating his crotch with a nod. "Since you're actually in my head, why do you even ask?"

"It's supposed to help you to _speak_ about it. So your therapist keeps insisting, at any rate. I'm just here because you lack a human conversational partner," not-really-Sherlock answered plainly.

John sighed. "Fine, then," he said, staring at a particularly interesting crease in the duvet. After a while he whispered, "I'm scared."

"Of what?" Sherlock's calm, even voice reached him, washing over him soothingly, cradling him like a soft blanket. John closed his eyes and took a deep breath, leaned back and relaxed.

"I'm afraid it would end our friendship," he said after another long moment. "I don't want him to dislike me. I don't even particularly need him to love me back, but... I can't lose him. He means... everything to me, he's the reason I'm still alive."

"He needs you just as much, John. Without you, he'd probably be dead by now. Without you, he's lonely. He even told you that. Before you, he was all alone. Before you, there was no one to take care of him."

"But there's going to be someone eventually. Someone else to take care of him. Surely even Greg would. Mrs Hudson definitely will. He's not alone. He's not lost without me. But I _am._ Without him."

The imaginary Sherlock crawled over to John's side on all fours, sitting back on his knees and staring intently into his eyes. John swallowed and uncertainly returned the look.

"John," the soothingly calm baritone lulled him again, "you said it yourself, John. You're lost without him. Perhaps that will be enough to go back home to him. Perhaps he even feels for you. Perhaps he is just waiting for you to make the first move."

"That's utter bollocks. I know Sherlock. He doesn't... _do_ feelings like that _._ He shut that out a long time ago."

 _How,_ thought John, _can anyone make you_ hear _an eye-roll?_ "Even if that's so, he's only waiting for you to come home. He's not going to push you away."

John inhaled a deep breath. Exhaled slowly. Inhaled. "How could I ever be sure of that?"

"You can't be unless you go and find out. Some things are worth the risk, John. And you like danger. Or so I hear, anyway."

John shifted uncomfortably on the bed. "Okay, fine, that's all very true. But how am I getting over him when he's constantly there, reminding me how much I _want_ him?"

A soft chuckle filled the room. "You're giving up hope too easily. But regardless of whether you can have him the way you want or not - use your imagination," not-really-Sherlock said, the wink audible in his voice. "I'm given to understand it's rather vivid."

With those softly spoken words, imaginary Sherlock leaned in and gently touched his lips to John's.

John stiffened, startled. However, he didn't take long to give in to the temptation and respond to the slow movement of the mouth on his, licking, sucking and biting the tender skin of those incredibly soft lips.

A moan reverberated from the walls as he watched Sherlock unbutton his purple shirt (John's favourite), deliberately slowly. Long, gentle fingers popped open the buttons one by one, revealing alabaster skin and pale rose nipples.

"Touch me, John," Sherlock said, biting his bottom lip. But before John had a chance to reach out, Sherlock climbed onto his lap and pressed himself flush against him. Lips touched again, an urgent hand finding its way into John's lap, squeezing, rubbing, teasing the tip of his erection.

"Oh God," John bit out, voice rough with lust. His head fell back into the pillows and he exposed his neck to Sherlock, who clawed experimentally at the tanned skin - small, maddening kitten-scratches - biting at John's nape, pulling a needy groan from his throat.

Pants were ripped off and tossed aside in a matter of seconds and Sherlock's thin, long fingers wrapped around John's prick, stroking him languidly at first, but increasing pressure with every up and down movement. John moaned throatily, already desperate. "Oh, fuck, Sherlock, oh God," he panted, watching his friend take off his trousers swiftly despite shaking hands.

 _Well, I don't think it could be any clearer what my subconscious wants_ , he thought.

A deep, dark moan echoed from the walls as Sherlock sank himself onto John's body with one fluid movement. They stilled for mere seconds, eyes locked, before starting to move against each other hungrily. John answered Sherlock's downward thrusts with bucks of his hips and oh, everything was happening so fast but it was just right.

"John, oh yes, oh God, yes." Sherlock's enthusiastic cries filled his ears and he came hard, shaking violently, riding out the aftershocks of his orgasm with eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"Fuck," John managed after a while, breath still coming raggedly. He blinked against the dim light the moon poured into the room and saw the image of Sherlock fading with what could only be described as the sexiest grin in history, like a very adult version of the Cheshire Cat.

"Until next time," that rich baritone sounded one last time, faintly hopeful and longing.

John was suddenly self-conscious. A hot blush crept up his neck. _Oh God, what have I done?_ he thought with no small amount of embarrassment.

He took in a deep, calming breath. Exhaled steadily. Took in another. "Nothing I'll have to apologise for," he muttered and went to sleep without cleaning up the mess he'd made.

. . .

Waking up was pure bliss.

John yawned and stretched lazily, grinning at the sun that shone brightly into his room. He didn't remember when he'd last slept as well as he had during the past night.

He stretched again and reached for his phone to check the time. It buzzed in his hands: a text from Sherlock. John inhaled deeply, bracing for whatever lunatic idea his friend wanted to involve him in this time, and opened it.

**John, please come home. -SH**


	4. Deception

**A Bit of a Domestic, Chapter four: Deception**

Anxiety churning his stomach, John stood in front of the door to his flat - _their_ flat - staring at the black wood for a full twelve minutes with his hand resting on the door handle. The longer he waited, the more uneasiness spread through his body.

He felt like a bloody idiot, standing there in front of his own flat, unable to open that goddamn door.

He swallowed and let his hand drop. He rested his forehead against the thick black paint and sighed, eyes squeezed shut. His heart beat rapidly and he felt suddenly nauseated.

"How much longer are you planning to stand out there? Your tea is cooling." Sherlock's voice sounded from the other side of the door and John twitched involuntarily. Of course the madman would know he was standing here. John felt even more like an idiot. He shook off the embarrassment and inhaled deeply before he finally mustered up the courage to push the handle and follow his friend up the seventeen steps to the flat.

Once upstairs and inside the living room, his gaze instantly fixed itself on Sherlock's tall figure in his armchair by the window. He sat with his feet on the seat, drawn so close to his body, his heels were almost touching his (plush, touchable, indecently sexy, especially in _those_ trousers) arse.

John let out the breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding and crossed the room to his chair, dropping the bag that held his dirty clothing along the way and peeling off his jacket and cardigan.

"So," Sherlock said calmly once John was seated, resting tired eyes on the good doctor's face. He didn't utter anything else.

"So?" John asked after a few minutes of awkward silence, swallowing thickly around the lump that had formed in his throat.

_What are you so concerned about, John?_ his Subconscious-Sherlock asked in the back of his head, amusement underlying the beautiful baritone.

"So, are you here to collect the rest of your belongings, or are you staying?" Sherlock would not get an answer. Not just now, anyway.

John stared at Sherlock over the rim of the cup he had picked up, inhaling the scent of Earl Grey, honey and milk, marvelling in it. Sherlock watched him with a raised eyebrow.

"Are you going to sniff it or drink it?" he enquired, never having seen John admire a cup of tea this way.

John finally curled his lips around the rim of the cup and took a sip, closing his eyes and rolling the liquid around in his mouth to savour the rich taste of it before swallowing and putting the cup back into its saucer. His heart jumped, swelling with a sudden rush of love for his lunatic flatmate as he stared at the tea.

"Perfect," he exclaimed in a soft rumble.

Sherlock nodded slightly and John smiled at the thought that his friend's intent was to make peace between them. Obviously, it had worked. John had not felt so much at ease in a long while. Briefly he considered telling Sherlock that, for once, he was not the one at fault, at least not _actively._ But he quickly dismissed the idea, deciding it would do less harm to let the prat feel a little remorse than to stroke his already over-sized ego.

When he mentally stepped back and considered it, the silent bliss suddenly felt odd. Just minutes before he had felt nauseated and dizzy - hell, he'd been scared to enter his own damn flat. But now, with Sherlock sitting across from him, his eyes roaming John's face and body, no doubt making quick deductions and filing them away for later use, John was blissfully calm.

"You're staying," Sherlock suddenly declared.

John blinked, then grinned. "If you keep making me tea as lovely as this every once in a while, then I might."

Sherlock frowned and rolled his eyes. "That's downright extortion," he complained in mock-annoyance and raised a delicate eyebrow.

"If you like," John chuckled. "I call it _compromising."_

"I'm confident we will find a fitting arrangement to ensure sufficient tea supply." Sherlock smiled with only the right corner of his mouth, and John couldn't help but stare for just a moment. When he realised his gaze was lingering, he felt his heart clench. Surely that hadn't slipped past Sherlock's all-observing eye, he thought, and the anxiety returned.

The consulting detective however, despite having deduced _something_ from John's gaze and sudden embarrassment, for once said nothing.

John would later mentally slap himself for uttering what he did then. "Sherlock, I can _see_ you deducing. What is it?"

Sherlock shot him an odd look. "You're hiding something from me. Something important, too. You suspect I already know what it is, and it frightens you, yet you want to hear me spell it out for you?"

Correction: John would later very much hate himself, Sherlock, and the whole world for pressing the issue. "Get on with it."

"The way you stare at me when you think I'm not looking, and the embarrassment written across your face when you realised I _saw,_ John - you may not want to put those out in the open for everyone to see."

Sherlock cleared his throat and John took a swig of tea, mouth suddenly dry. _Calm down, Watson, no need to worry,_ he thought.

"You were staring at my fingers the day you stormed out of our flat, undoubtedly imagining what they would feel like on you. Even now, you keep staring at my lips, implying you wish to kiss me."

John swallowed thickly, squeezing his eyes shut tightly, inhaling a deep, shuddering breath. He opened his mouth to say something, _anything,_ to dispute the clever deductions, but words failed him and he slowly opened his eyes to look at Sherlock, who smiled that half-smile of his that made John want to devour him whole.

When Sherlock spoke again, John thought he must have misheard. Or perhaps this was another dream (and if so, he never wanted to wake up). "Go ahead, John, I'll allow it," Sherlock said, and John could do nothing but gape at him.

"I - you - what?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and stared intently into John's crystal-blue eyes. "I said, go ahead and kiss me. See if it's as you thought it would be."

John stared for another long moment. Eventually, he shook himself out of his stupor and looked at Sherlock as if he had finally lost his mind - the fine line between genius and insanity and all that. "No. I'm absolutely _not_ doing that."

Sherlock blinked, puzzled, but then shrugged. "Fine," he said, and John couldn't determine if he sounded upset or if that was wishful thinking on his part.

There was silence for a few minutes, in which John resumed drinking (as in 'marvelling in') his tea. Then, suddenly, Sherlock spoke again.

"The reason you left Baker Street almost two weeks ago was probably my snappish remark following your rather rude exclamation of 'Fuck you' - it was the last straw, so to speak. My reaction was uncalled for, and I apologise for that. Yet, John, do me a favour and try to contain your... _wanting_ of me. I can't give you what you are looking for."

John smacked his cup back in the saucer, the porcelain complaining with an unpleasant screech. He huffed out a breath and narrowed his eyes at the other man. "And you think I wasn't aware of that? I bloody well knew _that_ from the moment I understood what was going on with me. God damn it, Sherlock, I know you're incapable of... feelings like this. Why do you think I tried to hide it in the first place?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Out of embarrassment. Seeing as you are probably the most heterosexual man walking this planet, it must have been a devastating experience to suddenly-"

"Yes, all right, fine, I have been embarrassed and I have been in denial, for God's sake," John cut him off. "But I eventually realised I can never have what I want no matter how desperately I want it, and I'll cope with that. Can we please drop it now?"

Sherlock blinked. "Desperately?" he repeated, and John wondered if he imagined the slight tremor in his voice.

John shut his eyes and inhaled a deep, calming breath. "I can't help it, Sherlock. Not yet, anyway, but I promise I'll try to contain myself. I certainly won't jump you in your sleep."

"Desperately," Sherlock said again, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Sherlock? Were you even listening to me?" John enquired, frowning.

The other man seemed to shake himself out of a momentarily stupor and fixed his eyes on his friend. "John. I will ask you a question and I insist you answer it honestly."

Later, John would wish he'd said no. Instead he swallowed hard and nodded.

Sherlock sighed. "John, what exactly are the feelings you're harbouring towards me?"

John blinked and tore his gaze away from his friend's demanding eyes. "I... I think I might... love you, Sherlock. As in being in love with you." _As in, I'm so screwed,_ he mentally added.

"Mistake," Sherlock muttered.

"Excuse me?" John asked then, confused.

Sherlock took a shuddering breath. "It's the worst possible error that could have occurred, John," he said, pointedly not looking at him.

John sighed, suddenly feeling very exhausted. "Yes, Sherlock, it's not ideal, not at all. But I told you, I'm going to keep it down. It's not going to change anything between us, all right? I'm still your friend. Let's drop it now, okay?"

Sherlock said nothing. His hands were shaking slightly, John noticed, and so he made a decision and headed up the stairs. Digging free a pair of socks from one of his drawers, he retrieved a pack of Pall Mall Blues he kept there, hidden away from Sherlock, in case the need should ever arise. He didn't like Sherlock smoking, but sometimes, just very rarely, it seemed to be necessary to let him. He opened the small paperboard container and took one of the cigarettes, then put the pack back into its hiding place.

He also snatched up the crystal ashtray Sherlock had _acquired_ from Buckingham Palace and smiled at the memory.

Downstairs, he placed the ashtray on the small coffee table in front of his flatmate and held the fag out to him. "Calm your nerves before I'm forced to knock you out."

Sherlock gave him a funny look and reached for the cigarette, but John drew back his hand before he could take it. "Ah, wait, have you eaten anything today? I won't let you smoke on an empty stomach."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't feel like eating now, John. I feel like smoking. Give it here." When John raised his eyebrows and gave him The Look, he added, "Please."

John sighed. "All right, fine, here you go." He handed the cancer stick to his friend and sat back down in his armchair. Sherlock followed his every move and then stared at him demandingly. John blinked back at him in confusion before he realised his mistake. He sighed again and rolled his eyes. "Right, where's your lighter?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. Then, "Bedroom."

So John, long-suffering best friend, housekeeper, and family doctor, got up from his just re-acquired seat and went to search for Sherlock's lighter in his bedroom. He found it ten minutes later underneath a pile of case notes and took it back into the living room, where Sherlock sat in the exact pose he had left him in, with the exact expression on his features. His face lit up when John held out the lighter.

"Thank you," he said evenly, much to John's surprise, and took it with two long, pale fingers. Their skin brushed and John shivered slightly, the motion not going unnoticed by Sherlock. "Stop it," he said irritably.

Taken aback, John inhaled a calming breath and blew it out again, then rolled his eyes. "Working on it," he said simply.

"Good," Sherlock said and nodded, lighting his cigarette while John went back to his chair.

Silence flooded the room, and it all seemed very much back to normal and inclusively comfortable.


	5. Adjudication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay, but my wonderful beta TSylvestris was super busy and I just refuse to publish anything without it being properly beta-read.

**A Bit of a Domestic, Chapter five: Adjudication**

Two days later, Sherlock and John were bounding down the stairs of their flat on the way to a crime scene Lestrade had summoned them to.

It was a simple case for Sherlock. It took barely three minutes of examining the body (a ginger woman, mid-thirties, killed when one of her own kitchen knives tore through her carotid artery - gruesome, in John's opinion) before he started rattling off his deductions.

"Unhappy marriage," he said and looked at Lestrade. "I recall you saying her husband found her?"

Greg nodded in confirmation, "Yeah. He-"

"Isn't the murderer," Sherlock interrupted. "You will want to look for her lover, or one of them, she had at least four. You're searching for a man with dark brown hair, a shoe size of nine and a half to ten, and a limp, probably a war veteran, living close by."

"Why would her lover-" Lestrade started but cut himself off at Sherlock's scowl. "Never mind. Then how do you know all that?" the DI demanded ,and Sherlock impatiently explained.

"Brilliant," John exclaimed when he was finished, and Sherlock gave him an odd look.

"John. Don't," he said before he turned around and left the crime scene, not waiting, as per usual.

Lestrade and John stared after him, then Greg eyed John. "All right between you two?" he asked, brows furrowed.

John looked back at him and shrugged. "It will be, eventually." He tried an optimistic smile, but failed miserably. Lestrade acknowledged it with a raised eyebrow but said nothing more.

"All right, thanks to you both for stopping by. Now you'd better hurry to catch up with him, eh."

John nodded at the DI and turned to leave. "Oh, and John? If you ever, you know, want to grab a pint or something..."

John smiled appreciatively. "Thanks, Greg," he said and ducked his head.

"Yeah, no problem, mate. Take care, and I'll see you 'round." Lestrade grinned. John nodded again and turned around to run after Sherlock, hoping to catch up with him before he hailed a cab and headed off without him. Naturally he didn't manage it.

. . .

John returned to the flat forty minutes later carrying Tesco bags to find Sherlock at his microscope, examining something that looked like carpet fibre.

"Is that _our_ sitting room carpet, Sherlock?" he asked, starting to unpack.

Sherlock didn't answer, apparently absorbed in his experiment. John didn't even _want_ to know what he was doing there - honestly, he was fine with whatever mischief Sherlock was up to, as long as it didn't involve hydrochloric acid and John's favourite jumper. _Again._

"Shift over," he commanded as he reached for the fridge handle to put away two cartons of semi-skimmed milk. Sherlock's arse, however adorable and _tiny,_ was blocking his way. Sherlock didn't move.

With a sigh, John put the cartons on the counter and grabbed his friend by the hips to push him out of the way. Sherlock stiffened. "Hands off," he demanded, startling John.

"I - excuse me?" he enquired, blinking confusedly, hands still on Sherlock's bony hips.

"I said _don't touch me,"_ Sherlock said venomously. John pulled his hands back as if from a hot stove.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, what's _wrong_ with you? I just asked you to shift and you snapped my head off."

The detective snorted. "What's wrong with _me?"_ he asked, and John felt his heart twist.

"Fine, I won't touch you. But move over, then, I need to get into the fridge," he said, deliberately calm. With an annoyed grumble from the back of his throat, Sherlock did.

. . .

Sherlock continued to be irritable in the days that followed, going so far as to tell John, when he grabbed his jacket to follow him to a crime scene, to "stay and do whatever you ordinary people do to occupy yourselves."

John was hurt, and very much so. He debated trying to talk some sense into the other man, but gave up on the idea. However, Sherlock sought him out that night.

"Your... _wanting._ I can't stand it, John," he said, evenly.

John took a deep breath. "Look, Sherlock, I'm still your friend, okay? Just try to not think about the rest, and all will eventually go back to normal."

"No, John, you don't understand. I can't; it's there, always, in my head."

John shrugged. "Delete it?"

Sherlock looked at him, irritated. "I can't delete _you,_ John."

"No, delete what you know about my feelings towards you," John clarified.

Sherlock shook his head, staring down at his hands. "No use, I would know it again the moment I looked at you. Besides, I just can't delete you, or anything concerning you. Trust me, I've _tried."_

John blinked confusedly at him. "You...have? When? Why?" A sudden pain stabbed his heart.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Does it matter?" he asked with an air of disdain. Whether it was aimed towards John or just the fact that deletion didn't seem to apply to the doctor, John didn't know. In any case, he didn't allow himself to feel offended. His heart clenched uncomfortably regardless.

"Yes, Sherlock. To me, it does," John said simply and fixed demanding eyes on his tall friend, who suddenly didn't seem so tall anymore, slumped down in his armchair.

Sherlock took a sip of his tea and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, preparing, from the looks of it, for what he was about to say. "After I realised you probably weren't going to come back. I didn't like... what it did to me. I was hurting... somewhere inside. Therefore, I tried to delete you, to make it stop. It didn't do any good."

John stared at him, mouth agape. Hearing it hurt more than he'd thought. What if Sherlock had succeeded? He shook himself out of his stupor after a full ten seconds, when suddenly a thought struck him. With surprise evident in his voice he said, "You... actually _missed_ me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes once again. "If you say so, John. Whatever it is, it's worse now."

John frowned, taken aback. "That... doesn't make sense at all. I mean, it probably does to you, but I don't get it, Sherlock." He took a deep breath and continued before Sherlock could interrupt him, "Okay, look, I'm trying to stop all this. Just... give me a bloody chance, give it time. Wounds like that don't heal overnight, you know." He felt his heart sink. He couldn't fathom where this conversation was going, but it made him uneasy.

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. _"You_ are wounded, John?"

The doctor's frown deepened and he narrowed his eyes at his friend. "Rejection hurts, even if you're prepared for it." The green eyes locked on his gleamed and Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement. There was an uncomfortable pause.

"As I was saying, John. It's becoming worse, this...hurting."

"Again, Sherlock: I'm not sure I understand," John admitted. "If you were hurt because I wasn't here, then it should be better by now. I mean, I'm back, after all."

Sherlock just shrugged. "I conclude it wasn't about missing you, then."

Several deep breaths and two sips of tea later, John answered, uneasiness giving way to outright anxiety - and sadness; did he not mean _anything_ at all to Sherlock if the man couldn't even bring himself to _miss_ his best friend? - "What else could it be, then? Is there something I can do about it?"

Sherlock pointedly didn't look at him, focusing on fumbling fingers. "I - you - it unearthed... unpleasant memories, John. I can't stand it, it's...disturbing."

John absorbed the confession and winced, wondering what sorts of bad memories he was responsible for bringing to the fore of Sherlock's bright mind and knowing Sherlock would clearly feel his privacy invaded if he asked for details. Eventually he took a deep breath, asking, "What do you want me to do about it, then?"

"Stop feeling that way towards me, now. Just...stop it." Sherlock's voice, barely above a whisper, cracked.

John swallowed thickly and took another sip, his mouth suddenly parched. He put his cup back in its saucer and cleared his throat. "I'm trying, Sherlock, but I can't do that overnight, you see. I'm not like you, able to turn my feelings on and off like a light switch. As I said, it takes time to move on from something like... _this."_

Sherlock nodded. John wasn't at all prepared for what the detective said next. "Under these circumstances it may be the most favourable outcome for both affected parties if you were to... move out."

John blinked in utter disbelief. "I - you - what?" he managed eventually, staring at Sherlock.

"You heard me," Sherlock responded, finally lifting his gaze, storm-grey eyes locking onto ocean-blue.

"You're... throwing me out?" John was aware he was having a whinge, but he couldn't bring himself to give a flying fuck. Anger suddenly burned in the pit of his stomach. "What the bloody hell _is_ it with you, Sherlock Holmes? First you practically _beg_ me to come back home and now you want to be rid of me just because you can't stand that you're a bit uneasy? Are you even listening to yourself sometimes? Or to me, for that matter? I said I was going to cope with it; why can't you?

"I would do anything to stop it, because really, Sherlock? Do you think I _wanted_ that? Do you think I _chose_ to fall in love with you? And now you suddenly want to have me gone, just like that? Fine, Sherlock, what-the-sodding-hell-ever."

Sherlock clenched his jaw and balled his hands into tight fists. "I wanted you to come back because I thought you would've been over it by then. I wanted you to come back because I-" he bit off the words and drew a deep breath.

"Because of _what,_ Sherlock? Say it," John demanded, and for once Sherlock obeyed.

"Missed you. Needed you, here, with me. As my _friend_ , John. My only friend. But you aren't that anymore, not now."

John felt ice settle in his heart, brittle and hard. "Oh, right, you bloody great idiot, keep _stampeding_ all over my feelings, it's all right, it's fine," John ground out. "So I'm not even worthy of your friendship anymore, now, am I? Makes me wonder, Sherlock: have you ever valued me in any way? I don't imagine you did."

Sherlock's eyes widened but he said nothing.

The storm inside calmed and slowed to a frigid wind. _Inhale. Exhale. Inhale._ "It's fine, Sherlock, I'll go. But this time, no matter how often you may apologise, even if you beg me on your knees - I. Will. Not. Come. Back. Not ever, Sherlock. If I leave this flat, I'm done with you and nothing is ever going to change that."

And with those words, John calmly put on his cardigan and his jacket, moving deliberately slowly to give Sherlock a chance to re-think and apologise, hoping against hope that he would do, that John wouldn't have to do this. As he should have expected, no such thing happened. Dying heart sinking inside his chest, he left the flat, once again leaving them both devastated.

. . .

John restlessly wandered the streets of London with no particular destination in mind. By the time he was tired and his feet were aching, he'd walked a solid 14 miles in five hours, from the City of Westminster through Lambeth and down to Croydon. At least that's what the GPS in his phone told him.

He rounded a couple of corners and walked for about twenty minutes more, then found himself in a familiar neighbourhood. He looked around for a road sign, stopped in front of a very familiar white two-storey house right across the street from Montpelier Church, and blinked.

Without hesitation he stepped up to the door and rang the bell that read _Lewis_ in beautiful, calligraphic handwriting.

"John?" Clara said just moments later. "Dear God, what's happened to you? You look awful!"

He answered with a half-hearted, lopsided grin. She ushered him inside and took his jacket off him, practically manhandling him onto the couch in the living room and popping into the kitchen. "I'm gonna make us a nice cuppa and then you'll tell me everything," she shouted from inside the fridge as she dug free a fresh carton of milk.

For the first time since John had left his former flat, he took a deep, deliberate breath and leaned back into the soft cushions to relax his taut muscles.

Clara quickly came back into the living room, two mugs of freshly brewed tea in hand, a generous amount of milk in both. "Do you still take yours with no sugar?" she enquired. John nodded, took the mug she was holding out for him, and cradled it in his chilly hands.

She took a seat beside him and turned to face him. "Is something wrong with Harry?" she asked then, concern in her voice.

John shook his head and noted her relieved huff with a tiny smile. "In that case, Johnny, my sweet, what's up with you? You look like you cried yourself to sleep for the past week."

"Well," he started, his voice faint. He cleared his throat before he continued, "I guess I fell in love."

Clara blinked at him uncomprehendingly. "And here I was, thinking that love was a good thing, something to cherish," she murmured, and sighed. "What did she do?"

"He," John clarified and looked down into his mug. He heard Clara inhale sharply.

"Oh, Johnny. Is it that Sherlock bloke you're sharing a flat with?" She had heard of him before, of course; John didn't doubt Harry had forwarded every bit of information she had acquired to Clara. The two of them were starting to get along with each other again, after all.

"Was," John said evenly, successfully suppressing the need to cry on Clara's shoulder. For now, anyway.

"Excuse me?" she asked then, confusion and concern unaesthetically disordering her voice.

"That Sherlock bloke I _was_ sharing a flat with. And yes, he's the one I... _stupidly..._ " He bit his bottom lip harshly enough to draw blood. "God, Clara, I don't know what to do, don't know where to go. He just...he found out and threw me out and..." His breath hitched.

Clara pried the mug from John's tightly clasped fingers and put it on the table, then pulled him in for a proper embrace. "Hush, Johnny, hush. It's okay, it's fine. I'm here, I've got you."

She kept stroking his arm as he started to explain what had happened in short, choppy sentences, listening and just _being there._ John let himself feel at home in her arms for a moment, just a moment, before he remembered where home _really_ was, and what it contained. And that he'd irretrievably _lost it,_ in every sense of the word.


	6. Shattered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Mentions of sexual abuse, depression, self-harm and usage of drugs. If you're a fragile soul like me, I recommend not reading this chapter. I still wonder how I managed to write it without crying.  
> AUTHOR'S NOTE: If you've experienced something akin to the things mentioned in this chapter, and if you still suffer from it, do me and yourself a great big favour and please seek help! Don't throw your life away, you're beautiful and precious!
> 
> Here, finally, it is: chapter six. I apologise for the delay, our lives kept my beta and me both really busy. As usual, here comes my thank you for reading & I'm looking forward to hearing your opinions. Now, off you go; enjoy!

**A Bit of a Domestic, Chapter six: Shattered**

Sherlock realised he had made a mistake as soon as John left and he heard the door slam closed. But instead of running after him, apologising and maneuvering him back into their shared flat, he just sat there and stared, trying to will his heart to stop pounding relentlessly and painfully against his bones, reminding himself to breathe. _Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Exhale. Exhale._

He sucked in a desperate breath, coughed and pressed his right hand to his sternum. The pressure snapped him out of his state of selfish grief. _Selfish._ Was he really so self-centered as to send his best friend away for something he couldn't help? And what good did it do him now?

Memories cut through his thoughts, memories he should have forgotten, deleted, but that he kept tucked away not only because deletion didn't apply to them, but because however painful, he treasured them, valued the pain they sent through him, relished the way they made his heart clench uncomfortably in his chest. He should have hated them and the heartbreak they brought. Instead he wanted, even _needed_ the destructive force of them, the raging typhoon they unleashed inside of him.

" _I can't do this yet, Vic, I'm not...ready,"_ twenty-one-year-old Sherlock's voice said in the back of his head, and seven-years-older Sherlock in the here-and-now clenched his eyes shut tightly, drawing a shuddering breath, pressing shaking hands against his lips and heart.

_Brown eyes gleamed at him, so full of understanding. "It's okay, love, it's all right. I can wait. For you, I'll wait," Vic's gentle voice said. A hand came up to caress Sherlock's cheek, a thumb following the sharp line of his prominent cheekbone._

Sherlock swallowed, shivered, gasped. He could physically feel the touch now; even after all this time, it was so distinctively _real._ A reassuring gesture that spoke of love and acceptance, yet it was so devastatingly painful.

"I have been hurt once, John," a voice that didn't sound at all like Sherlock's rich baritone said into the empty, _lonely_ room, reverberating from the walls. "I can't do this a second time," Sherlock explained; reminded himself, unsuccessfully suppressing the tremor in his voice. It had been a long time since he'd felt this close to a breakdown, and he cherished the thought of shattering the poor remainders of himself, encouraged the memories to spill out of their hiding place and into the front of his mind.

_Hands on his hips, demanding lips prying his mouth open. Giving in to the sensations, giving in to the love and acceptance that was Victor's touch._

Sherlock bit his bottom lip to stop a strangled cry from pouring out, a reaction uncalled for - unnecessary, useless emotion. _Stupid, stupid._

" _Love is a destructive force beyond your capability, Sherlock,"_ Mycroft had once said. Oh, how right he was. Sherlock felt his body trembling, a shiver running up and down his spine, a chill claiming his heart. The hand above his sternum fisted the material of his shirt as more memories flooded his sharp mind.

_Vic's strong hands on his back, pulling him in, their erections meeting through thick layers of clothing. Long fingers on the front of his jeans, unbuttoning them. Sherlock's own hands grabbing and stilling them firmly in place despite their shaking with want, need._

_Clouded brown eyes, dark with lust, locked on his, questioningly. A spark of anger flashed in them. "Give me this." Vic's deep, demanding voice._

Sherlock's eyes shot open, his long, pale fingers disappearing in his dark curls, grabbing them, pulling with all his strength. He cried out, heart stuttering to a halt for the briefest moment, only to pound against his chest with redoubled force.

" _I've waited seven months for you, Sherlock. You owe me this." The voice was calm and demanding, sending a cold shiver down Sherlock's spine._

" _I can't, Vic, I'm not-" Victor cut him off, pressing his mouth to Sherlock's, sucking his bottom lip between his own._

Sherlock shivered, heart jumping in fear at the memory of being lost and in bittersweet anticipation of what had been about to happen.

" _Enough," Victor's suddenly cold voice said sharply as his lips and teeth stopped abusing Sherlock's mouth._

_Sherlock felt a surge of fear course through him and bit his bottom lip violently enough to draw blood. It tasted metallic on his tongue but he didn't pay it much mind._

" _Enough with the games and the cock-teasing. Give me this," Vic demanded, strong hands on Sherlock's shoulders, fisting the material of his tee-shirt, shaking him slightly._

" _And if I don't?" Sherlock said, lifted his chin in a sudden attempt to appear strong-willed, to seem taller, to be protective of himself._

_Vic grinned, slowly, almost lazily and licked his lips. "I'll have you either way, love," he said and stroked a thumb over Sherlock's cheek, "You can either give it, or I'll take it. Your choice, darling. Choose wisely."_

Sherlock was faintly aware of shameful tears, but he couldn't bring himself to care. It wasn't as if he had any dignity left to lose, nor anyone to lose it to.

_He cried out in pain as Vic slammed him face first into the floor. A sharp knee dug into his back, keeping him down, and he groaned. Strong hands reached around him, opening the remaining buttons of his faded jeans and jerking them down along with his pants. Sherlock's own hands pressed against the rough carpet on either side of his head, trying to lift himself enough to breathe._

_The sound of a zipper and the rustling of clothes made him struggle to roll free, to look at Vic's face and know this was all a mistake, to remember that Vic loved him and - surely Sherlock had it all wrong. He wasn't experienced, not like Vic, but this...this felt wrong. But Vic, his loving, understanding, caring Vic, he wouldn't. He'd stop, get up and grin playfully at Sherlock, and he'd say it was just a cocaine-infused joke._

_But then Vic lowered himself, straddling Sherlock's legs, forcefully holding down his upper body with one hand as the other pushed the head of his erection into him - and suddenly it was too late to fight._

_A sharp, burning pain ripped through him, and he cried out until he was hoarse but Vic didn't stop. Tears of pain and anger pooled at the corners of Sherlock's eyes. He didn't want this. Vic loved him, Vic, who was always so understanding and gentle. This was, had to be, some kind of mistake._

Sherlock's hands finally let go of his hair and he planted the soles of his feet on the seat of his armchair, pulling his long limbs in close and encircling them with his arms, locking his long fingers around his wrists to keep them in place. He buried his face in the hollow between his bony knees and felt the soft, black wool of his trousers grow damp in the spots right above them.

_Vic ground into him deeper, harder, relentlessly picking up the pace. The deep pain never faded, never lessened, but worse was the pain in his heart. He had trusted Victor, had accepted his love and had loved him back with all his heart, soul, and - worse yet - with his mind._

" _Don't, Vic, please, stop this, please." He clawed at the carpet, trying to get enough leverage to roll and throw Victor off him, clenching his jaw and squeezing his eyes shut when he couldn't. It didn't make the hurt any more bearable, but at least he was trying and that made him feel not so pathetic. He heard Victor laugh, felt fingers digging into his hips hard enough to bruise, and Vic - sweet, patient Vic - pounding into him ruthlessly, taking, plundering, ripping him open and apart._

_An eternity later, Vic groaned and ejaculated, and the pounding finally stopped. He pulled out wetly and let go of Sherlock's bony hips. The moment the heavy weight of Vic's body was removed, Sherlock shuddered, the loss of body heat making goose-flesh rise all over his arms and back. Chilled to the core, wet, confused, and hurt as he was, he desperately wanted the old Vic to comfort him, and hated himself for that._

" _See? Not so bad. You had to get it over with sometime," Vic said. Sherlock pressed his face into the carpet and heard rather than saw him pull up his pants and trousers and exit the dorm room, leaving the Brilliant One behind, broken, shivering and crying on the inside._

"I learned to never trust anyone," Sherlock mumbled into his knees, a part of him still talking to John, explaining everything to him, desperately hoping his words would reach him, "especially if they put on a show of affection and acceptance. I won't be used again. But I trust you, John. I know you're different. But still it... all this... scares me." He swallowed around the lump in his throat and lifted his head to gaze at John's empty armchair. It seemed to taunt him. _"To love is to destroy, Sherlock. To be loved, is to be the one destroyed,"_ he repeated Mycroft's words, echoing in his head.

Sherlock clenched his jaw, unsuccessfully fighting off loneliness. He hung his head again. "John is different," he mumbled to himself, "John would not - he protects me, he cares for me, he-" Sherlock clamped down on that thought harshly.

The scene played out in front of him again, but Victor's dark, chocolate brown eyes and languid, promising smile were replaced with clear, ocean-coloured irises and a familiar half-frown-half-smile that mirrored John's worry and fondness for Sherlock.

He shook himself out of it, pulling strands of his hair with all the force he could muster. "No, no, no, no, no," he shouted, "not true, that wasn't John, John didn't do that to you, John would never, John is there to catch you when you fall, John is - John is - he's-" His voice broke as he remembered _what_ John was. " _Gone._ John is...gone. You made him turn his back on you. Much like you made anyone else leave. Because you thought you're better off alone. Because you thought being alone would protect you from getting hurt. But if other's don't hurt you, the loneliness will. You can't...mustn't be alone. You're dangerous when you're alone." He took several shuddering breaths at the end of his monologue and bit his lip again, long fingers massaging his temples. John would come back. He was _bound_ to come back. Wasn't he?

"John, John, John, come home, don't leave me, please," he murmured into the emptiness. "Oh please, I'm so sorry, come back, I need you, I-"

He didn't let himself finish this train of thought. Instead, he shoved himself up and out of his chair, rubbing the sleeves of his plum-coloured shirt over his eyes and, with shaking legs, stalked across the room and into the bathroom.

_Rage. Destruction._

He looked at himself in the mirror over the sink and frowned. _Ugly, broken, you did this to yourself, you let this happen, you're worthless._

Anger surged through him, adrenaline pumping through his veins, giving him strength. He smashed his fist into the mirror and shattered his reflection, sending shards of glass flying through the tiled room and boring into the white skin of his hand.

The pain was good, much better than the other kind. It was calming. He revelled in it, closed his eyes and _enjoyed_ the clarity _._ He enjoyed the silence, this different kind of pain stopping the memories and the feeling of being lost and lonely and broken, stopping the voices deafening him.

He stared at his bleeding hand, mesmerised, feeling the blood roll warmly and soothingly over his pale skin, watching it drip onto the white porcelain of the sink. He smiled, breathing in and out calmly, peacefully.

It felt better than any hit of cocaine he'd ever had, better than any trip he'd experienced. More calming, more peaceful. He'd never felt so alive before.

He delicately stretched his fingers and plucked a shard of the mirror, eyeing it gratefully and smiling. He closed his eyes, took in a shuddering breath, and came to a decision. This was enough, finally, certainly enough, and he wouldn't go on like this. He didn't have to. The solution was right there, in his hand.

He opened his eyes and watched as the shard dug a sharp edge into his pale skin right at the pulse point of his left wrist, drawing blood. It was beautiful, his blood, the way it welled up and poured out from under his skin. So warm, so dark.

He dipped his tongue into the small wound, tasting his own blood. It reminded him of portions of his past he treasured, truly valued. It tasted like warm milk and honey, his mother's cure for sleepless nights.

Suddenly he was cold and shivering. He shut his eyes and swallowed deliberately. The chill faded and was replaced by warmth, welcomed, treasured, beloved warmth. It felt like Mummy's embrace, like her kiss to his forehead, like her voice whispering reassurances into his ear, telling him he was her treasure, the best thing that had ever happened to her, her gorgeous, beloved little boy.

" _Never be afraid, Sherlock. I will always be there."_

He dropped the shard, eyes widening with shock and utter disbelief. What was he thinking? What was he _doing?_ He couldn't do this to himself. He couldn't do this to Mummy, who had always wanted him to live a long and happy life. He couldn't do this to John, who protected him to ensure just that. _John. Oh, John. You're a healer. Come back and fix me._


End file.
